


The Old Place

by consultingnerdofmanythings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, M/M, destruction of buildings, passing of time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9963998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingnerdofmanythings/pseuds/consultingnerdofmanythings
Summary: The city of London has decided to start tearing down flats for a construction project. Little did they know that an error in planning would reunite a man with his old home.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: Death  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

The year is 2075.

The flats lining the road on Baker Street- bordering Regent’s Park and wedged between Marylebone Road and Glentworth Street - had fallen into disrepair over the years. Everyone had left the city due to numerous economic collapses gauging the price of living, and the suburbs and country were now cheaper areas to live. No one wanted to put the time and the monetary funds into the upkeep of these flats.

So, the city of London acted. To find space for a new hospital, the city ordered that the flats be torn down after paying off the few building owners that were left.

The construction project began on one foggy and damp morning. One by one, a wrecking ball smashed through brick and plaster and paper and glass and memories of a city’s past- till only heaps of dust and rock and wood remained.

It was when the construction team encountered a certain flat building that they discovered something was off.

“Yeah, boss?” one of the contractors said into his mobile, staring at the flat building with confusion and awe, alongside the man who supposed to be in the bulldozer clearing the streets of rubble.  “One of these flat buildings isn’t in the registry. Must be some mistake? Yeah. Building number is two hundred and twenty-one.”

Sure enough, the city had overlooked payment for the owner of 221 Baker Street, and everyone in charge of the project chided themselves over forgetting it. It was now a stumbling block in their project.

The building belonged to one Doctor John Hamish Watson, a man well into his centennials who was living quietly in Sussex Downs. The city got in touch with his grandchild, who then told her grandfather that the city of London needed his permission to tear down the building and would pay him handsomely for it. Doctor Watson replied that he would let them do it if they allowed him to see the flats inside of it once more.

Needing the project done as soon as possible, the city of London agreed to his request, and a day later, Doctor Watson was wheeled into 221 Baker Street, having grown low in energy and arthritic in his later years.

Upon entering the flat building, Dr. Watson requested that he be taken up to the flat on the upper floor. His granddaughter and one of the contractors lifted him and his wheelchair up the seventeen stairs and parked him in the center of the sitting room.

The sitting room was but a shadow of what it once was. Dust covered the floor and the mantel of the fireplace. The wallpaper was peeling, revealing remnants of bullet holes in the walls that had been sealed and resealed with plaster. Oil marks decorated the walls where a mirror and painting of skull once hung. Furniture scuff marks decorated the floor. A lone book lay on the floor: _The Origin of Tree_ _Worship,_ a remnant of the move of the last tenants to live in the flat, one of which was Doctor Watson.

Upon seeing the old place again, Doctor Watson let out a laugh and smiled a denture-y smile.

“I’ve never seen him this happy,” his granddaughter whispered to the contractor.

“S-Sherlie,” Doctor Watson croaked, shaking.

“Yes, grandpop?”

“You remember those stories I used to tell you? About me and your other grandfather? This… This was the place.”

Doctor Watson started laughing again. Sherlie smiled sadly.

“We should probably leave soon,” the contractor interrupted. “City Hall needs the papers signed.”

“Right,” Sherlie replied. “Are you almost done, grandpop? Need more time?”

“Yes… Just a minute.”

Doctor Watson, after much effort, pain, and the aid of Sherlie, managed to stand up and limp over to the mantelpiece. He reached out and touched it.

“It’s still here. The stab mark. It’s… still here. Heh.” He turned and looked at Sherlie. “I once held a paper out right here. And your grandfather- he took a knife and _pwap!_ He stabbed it right through with a knife.” He laughed. “Your grandfather was a crazy man. You would have liked him.”

“I’m sure I would have, grandpop,” Sherlie said, about to lead him back to his wheelchair.

“Of course,” Doctor Watson continued. “You are just like him. Oh… It’s great to be back at the old place again…”

Doctor Watson looked around the room, smiling contently, and collapsed. He was saved from violently falling to the floor by way of help from Sherlie and the contractor.

Sherlie ended up signing the documents, handing over the ownership of the building to the city. The building was destroyed, but Sherlie made sure that before they could begin building the hospital, that the ashes of both Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson were spread out over the ground where the building once stood.  

 


End file.
